


Libenter

by PhantomArchangel



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Apprentice!Gimrizh, BDSM, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Multi, Sith!Quinn, as in Gimrizh is a slave for the first ch and abit, not particularly excessive gore but still gore, please don't read if you dont like that, probably a shit ton of smut i just havent written it yet, slavery mentions, unhealthy relationship dynamic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomArchangel/pseuds/PhantomArchangel
Summary: In which Malavai Quinn, Sith Lord, purchases a barely force sensitive slave on a whim despite never having trained an apprentice before.





	1. Initium

**Author's Note:**

> Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No! It's another au I shouldn't be writing!  
> So this is going to be Sith!Quinn Apprentice!Gimrizh au, where she's sort of his apprentice, sort of his lover, and sort of his personal assassin. Not going to be a healthy relationship here as they are asshole murders with possessiveness issues. If you want a healthy nice dynamic, I suggest you read my main fic, Iustitia. Or just read it in general because it's 300K and needs love.  
> Beta for this is the fab RiaJade01  
> 

~*~

ATC 8

~*~

Malavai has never liked Nar Shaddaa and the sprawling palace of Ybann the Hutt is no exception to that rule. It’s a dirty and the air smells faintly of spice no matter where he is - if it’s inside the palace, or around it, it reeks of glitterstim. And even though the place is massive it’s perpetually crowded. Practically a menagerie of species and races are packed around cantina tables, leaning over the edge of a massive fighting pit, waiting in balconies and hallways for a chance to speak to the Hutts.

Thank the force he doesn’t have to stoop to their level. He has rather more pressing business to attend to and none of the people here are foolish enough to get in a Sith’s way.

Two Hutts are lounging at the place of honor overseeing the pit, their massive forms looming over the handful of slaves that scurry about. Malavai has conferenced with Ybann before, but the second Hutt, who he believes to be Qiltakka, is unfamiliar to him.

“ _Ah, Sith_ ,” Ybann greets. That’s about as amicable as the Hutt gets without having watched a bloodbath to cheer him up. Although, given the way servants are preparing the fighting pits, Malavai would guess Ybann is going to insist on entertainment before speaking business. “ _Is the party to your liking?_ ”

Malavai shallowly nods his head, not deep enough to be mistaken for a bow, “It’s as opulent as always. My master, Darth Baras, has seen fit to add to tonight’s entertainment. He has sent caged gundark to your beast master as a gift for the Hutts.”

There’s a rumbling laugh from Qiltakka, “ _You were right, cousin, Baras is always a leap ahead of the competition._ ”

“ _Rathari_ ,” Ybann explains _, “sent a new pet Twi’lek to me just this morning. Not a very good one though, that Sith has poor suppliers. Baras has more distinctive taste_.”

“I shall convey your appreciation to my master,” Malavai replies. He knows it’s unlikely, but he tries to step onto the subject that actually matters, namely securing an alliance between these Hutts and Baras, in order to remove Rathari from power on Nar Shaddaa. “If the gundark is to your liking, my master has offered to set up a more lasting supply of whatever creatures you desire.”

As he predicted, Ybann suddenly looks far more disinterested, “ _I’ll think on that. Baras’s offer isn’t the only one I have."_

“ _Speak while we watch,_ ” Qiltakka suggests, waving one of the slave masters over, _“Start the fight. I am in the mood for placing a few bets. We can think on Baras’s offer while we are entertained_.”

Ybann chuckles, _“Excellent idea!_ ”

At least that is better than Malavai’s initial thought. On previous visits, he’s had to wait hours for a party to finish, or for Ybann to collect on all the bets he has made. It’s rather insulting. He’s tempted to just kill whichever slaves are fighting in order to speed up the proceedings. That rudeness would of course be detrimental to conducting proper business with the Hutts and as such, he won’t act on that impulse.

Down in the pit, one of the slave masters has begun pushing fighters into the arena, arming them with crude weapons. A gaffi stick, a small blade, a length of chain, nothing that’s even in the same category as Malavai’s own lightsaber. The weapon of a Sith is perhaps too efficient for such bloodsport - burns over cuts, swift executions over prolonged combat. The Hutts seem to enjoy the struggle of fighting as opposed to the show of skill that a talented combatant could provide.

One stands out, a young pale red Twi’lek girl who’s shaking with fear as she’s handed a metal staff.

“Is that the Twi’lek Rathari sent you?”

Ybann grabs a tumbler of wine with disinterest, “ _As I said, she wasn’t to my standards."_

“ _I shall put my money on that Nautolan_ ,” Qiltakka declares. He points a finger at one the slave in question, the one who received one of the few knives. A number of fighters have been given nothing at all.

The other Hutt bursts into deep laughter, _“What a foolish bet!_ _I shall place my coin on the Zabrak and take all your credits at the end!_ ”

Out of boredom, Malavai glances back down to pick out the Zabrak. It isn’t as though he will be able to do anything more productive right now, and he’s found that feigning interest often will further aid his master’s agenda in aligning with these Hutts. It seems all they want is to preen and flaunt their wealth in front of an eager audience. The falsehood lies sour in Malavai’s mouth but he’s patient. He can wait until he no longer has to deal with them.

There’s only one Zabrak, a woman with short, matted hair. Unlike most of the female slaves below, she’s actually dressed like a fighter, ripped trousers tied down around her ankles and straps of synthleather on her torso. “You’re betting on _her_?” he asks, “She’s unarmed.”

“ _She doesn’t have to be armed to put on a good show. I purchased that one from our cousin Rihtn two years ago when I absorbed the rest of his holdings. She hasn’t lost a fight for me since,_ ” Ybann signals for the fight to start, “ _I’d like to get a Sith to fight for me, but of course Baras won’t lend apprentices, and you cannot buy a Sith_.”

Any Hutt that attempts to buy a Sith would shortly find themselves lacking a head. Malavai’s almost glad that Ybann has not seen him fight before. He knows he has a better reign on his temper than some Sith but if the Hutt tried to _purchase_ him he suspects he might kill the Hutt out of principle.

The clamour of the crowd swells as the fighters being to attack each other. As far as Malavai’s aware, it’s just a free for all brawl. No rules, no elegance. Just brutality. He finds it a bit distasteful.

In the first minute, the Nautolan that Qiltakka bet on kills a Weequay. “ _You were saying, cousin?”_ Qiltakka says boisterously, applauding his chosen slave’s victory.

“ _Bah! That is nothing yet!_ ” Ybann scoffs, more than a little annoyed.

Malavai keeps his eye on the Zabrak. She’s kept to the back of the fight so far, and then is drawn out when a Trandoshan attacks her. The man is holding a knife, slashing at her without target in some pathetic attempt to draw blood. The Zabrak dodges, ducks, and kicks his legs out from under him. When he falls, she pries the knife from his fingers and uses it to slit his throat in one clean movement.  

A number of people in the crowd start to boo, Qiltakka included.

Now armed, the Zabrak goes on the offensive. She locks onto the Twi’lek girl and charges, leaping onto her back and plunging the blade through the girl’s spine, right between her lekku. It’s probably the swiftest kill so far.

That took skill - far more than any of the other slaves are showing. Skill, luck, and strength that Malavai wouldn’t assume she had just by looking at her.

“ _If Baras can send more slaves of fighting stock, that’d go a long way_ ,” Ybann comments between sips of wine.

Easily done. “One of his associates, a Ms. Setsyn, is a trader. I’m certain that if you inquired, my master could arrange a meeting between the two of you. Her product is of the highest quality, or so I’m told.”

Ybann scratches his chin thoughtfully, “ _I’ve heard of her. Good with Twi’leks, apparently. Yes, yes. I have Baras’ holo frequency somewhere, I’ll have to dig it up later_.”

At last, tangible progress. Baras will be pleased with the connection and Malavai will be pleased to be sent somewhere else.

Down below, the Zabrak guts another slave. She’s a brutal fighter, but very efficient. It almost reminds Malavai of lightsaber combat in some respects, although it’s certainly a coincidence. The victory thrills Ybann. There’s only a few slaves left, the Zabrak and the Nautolan among them.

Malavai frowns as there’s a slight movement in the force, “That apprentice of Rathari’s - is he here?”

“ _No_ ,” Ybann says dismissively, “ _Hasn’t been around for weeks_.”

Strange, he could have sworn he felt something. Perhaps there’s another Sith in the audience. Only it can’t be, he would have been informed if there was another in the area, and it’s not a Jedi. These Hutts in particular are solidly Imperial in alignment, even though the Cartel itself is neutral. The signature was rather weak. Maybe he caught an echo of some Sith or Jedi farther away. Goodness knows this planet is enough of a melting pot for it to be possible. Malavai decides to think on it later.

Qiltakka swears as the Zabrak attacks the Nautolan, throwing herself at him and ripping her knife from his throat to his pelvis.

The slave master grabs her blood splattered arm and lifts it into the air to the roar of the crowd, half cheers, half curses at having lost money. That was nearly impressively quick. He, and the Hutts, had been expecting a longer fight.

“ _Does the beastmaster have control of that gundark?”_ Ybann asks one of the servants, “ _I want to see the Zabrak fight it.”_

Malavai’s surprised by the Hutt’s haste. “I’ll have to let Baras know you approved his choice of gift.”

“ _Inform Baras that if he keeps sending high quality goods like that, I’ll side with him over Rathari any day_ ,” Ybann says. Apparently his win over Qiltakka has put him in a better mood than usual, and Malavai’s not ashamed to take advantage of that.

“I could set up a call with my master,” he offers.

Ybann thinks on it and then shakes his head, “ _I’ll call myself, perhaps this evening. Rathari is all sharpness with his gifts, the fool. I’d rather work with someone who can appreciate the finer things in life without feeling the need to threaten me first. Rathari has power, but delusions of grandeur. Baras is saner_.”

Only because Baras doesn’t share his more lofty ambitions with a bunch of Hutts as Rathari does. Almost all Sith desire power - a result of a code that stresses indulging emotions. Malavai is no exception. It’s just that he, like Baras, isn’t idiot enough to reveal those ambitions to Hutts at the drop of a hat.

“I am glad I could be of assistance.” He practically chokes on his insincerity, “If that’s your decision, then I shall depart.”

“ _No,_ ” Ybann protests, “ _At least see what becomes of your gift before you leave?”_

Fine, it’s just a few more minutes. Malavai relents, “Of course.”

A gasp ripples through the audience as one of the doors in the arena is lifted up and the gundark’s feet smash against the sands. Standing on two legs, it towers above the short Zabrak, who stumbles backwards from the surprise of facing the beast.

Before it can reach her, she grabs a second knife from the dead Nautolan and runs to the edge of the pit. The gundark lumbers after her, it’s claws kicking up dust and sand as it hurtles towards the wall. At the last second, she hits the dirt and rolls to the side - clever, Malavai realizes. She’s trying to fake the beast out, get it to slam its head against the duracrete and knock itself out.

It doesn’t work, the gundark instead skids and changes direction, coming after her again on all six limbs, far faster than she is.

She might be trying the same tactic again, as she’s standing still, crouched low to the ground and waiting for it to come to her. If it failed the first time, Malavai doesn’t think it’ll succeed the second. He loses interest.

And then - there’s that same flicker in the force.

The Zabrak rushes towards the gundark, pushing off from the ground and throwing herself at the wall. For an impossible few seconds she’s actually running along the wall before she uses that as a springboard to leap onto the gundark’s back. Both her knives dig into the creature’s neck and it tries to shake her off. She goes with the momentum, sliding off its shoulders and down onto the ground, letting the blades carve up it’s neck as she goes.

She drops lightly onto the sands and it collapses a moment later, screeching in pain before it dies.

That was the force - the Zabrak slave was using the force - she had to have been. Such a light touch, though, if she’s a Jedi, she’s hiding it better than Malavai thought possible. For that matter, why would a Jedi be here, on Nar Shaddaa, as a slave?

“I want to speak to that slave,” Malavai declares, his eyes focused firmly on her as the slave masters make her drop the weapons and drag her out of the arena.

Ybann, who is busy collecting money, shrugs, “ _Why not?_ _Send her up!_ ”

If she is a Jedi, Baras will need to know. And if she isn’t, Malavai is still curious as to what she’s doing here. Why she hasn’t been trained by the Sith or Jedi. While the Sith often don’t accept subspecies, and certainly not into the more prestigious schools, the Jedi are known for being far less selective when it comes to such matters.

“ _She’s nothing compared to a Sith_ ,” Ybann comments, “ _but slave fighting is a lovely sport regardless. I didn’t think you had much interest_.”

Malavai’s suspicions about the woman aren’t fit for a Hutt’s ears, “It’s idle curiosity.”

One of the slave master’s brings the Zabrak up to the platform. She drops to her knees before the Hutts, still splattered with blood from the arena.

Ybann gestures idly to her, “ _She’s all yours_.”

The Zabrak glances at him for a second, probably trying to be quick enough that he doesn’t notice, but her eyes catch on his lightsaber. Malavai stands in front of her and now that he’s closer he can sense that faint force sensitivity on her more clearly. “What’s your name?”

“Gimrizh, my lord,” she says quietly, apparently having decided to stare at the floor instead.

“And your age?”

“Twenty, my lord.”

“What were you before you were a slave?”

She startles, but surprisingly not because she has anything to hide. “I- don’t understand the question, my lord.”

“So,” he guesses, “you’ve always been a slave.”

“Oh. Yes, my lord.”

Such a distant shadow of the force on her. If she was born a slave, then she’d likely have lived her whole life in the shadow of the Empire or the Hutt Cartel, which means her chances of being picked up by the Jedi are slim to none. The Sith, of course, wouldn’t have taken her even if they were aware of her existence. Her connection to the force is too thin. If she were human or pureblood, then she’d have been trained regardless, but she isn’t.

She’s… undiscovered. Untrained. Normally Malavai would agree that training someone that disconnected from the force would be a waste of time. Yet he’s seen her fight. With a bit of proper education and a lightsaber - if she can wield one - she’d actually be decent if given enough time. Maybe she could never be a full Sith, but he still feels as though there’s something very promising about her.

It’s a challenge. An intriguing one, at that.

Malavai turns to Ybann, “How much does she cost?”

“ _What, you want to buy her_?” Ybann pauses in surprise then gives a number, “ _Fifteen thousand, I should think. She’s clean and a fighter, that makes her worth more. Not a full twenty thousand though - I keep on good terms with business acquaintances.”_

“Done,” he agrees, “I shall send you the payment right away.”

The Zabrak - Gimrizh, that is - freezes and slowly slides her gaze up to stare at him in confusion. She keeps staring as the slave master hands over the controls to her electroshock collar and as Malavai sends the payment over the holonet.

“ _Good to do business with you_ ,” Ybann says cheerfully, “ _I shall speak with Baras later today and see if he can get me another gundark!_ ”

“In return for your loyalty, I imagine Darth Baras can supply you with a fair number of exotic goods at your leisure,” Malavai assures him. He glances down at Gimrizh. She’s still bowed on the floor, uncertain as to what’s going on. “Come with me,” he orders.

That seems to snap her out of it. She scrambles to her feet and follows behind him as he leaves Ybann’s palace.

Once they’re far enough away for the smell of spice to fade, he informs her, “You may speak without being spoken to. If this is to work, you will need to speak freely. I’m assuming you have questions - feel free to ask them at any time unless I say otherwise.”

She’s walking a foot or so behind him, but still close enough for them to talk. It’s blatant how little training she has, he can sense her fluctuating emotions in the force with ease. “I… Thank you. I wasn’t expecting… I’m sorry, master, but I don’t understand what you mean. If _what_ is to work?”

“I think you might be of use to me,” he says. He should consult with Darth Baras first. It’s not really Baras’ choice to make, but Malavai still values his master’s input. And it would come up eventually anyways once she’s registered as an apprentice. “I’m Lord Malavai Quinn, a Sith, as you have probably guessed. Have you worked for Sith before? I’m curious as to your history, to any training you might have had - I assume you learned to fight from someone.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” she automatically replies, “No, I haven’t worked for the Sith before and I’ve not been trained by anyone. I was a house slave as a child and then sold to the Hutts as a fighter when I was nine.”

So she learned to fight like that simply from practice? That’s impressive, although it does make sense why Hutts wouldn’t want any of their fighters to get proper training. “Did you base your style off anything distinctive? Or is it all just instinct?”

“Instinct, I suppose, master. I just do what’s necessary to survive.”

“Do you know anything of lightsaber forms?”

“No, master.”

So that’s just another coincidence. It will likely make it easier for her to pick up lightsaber combat however. “Do you know anything about the force?”

“No, master.” She hesitates, opening and then closing her mouth twice before finally asking, “I am unsure what you want me to do? Er- what will my duties be? You’re not a Hutt and I’ve never heard of you before so you don’t own other fighters, or at least not ones that fight on Nar Shaddaa - sorry for my presumption.”

Malavai stops a passing taxi and instructs the droid to take them to the Mezenti spaceport. Now that his mission to get Ybann to turn against Rathari is complete, he’s due to return to Dromund Kaas. A civilized planet at last. They step into the taxi, Gimrizh awkwardly perching at the edge of her seat and trying not to fidget.

“That’s yet to be determined.” He also has to remember that he’s never trained an apprentice before, even if that ends up being how this situation works out. “For now, I can say that I doubt it will be like returning to being a house slave. My ship has a droid for domestic duties, and I bought you for your skills in combat.”

She looks relieved at that, “Oh, so - I’m here to fight, master?”

“That’s what I said - I’d rather not repeat myself,” he confirms. Curious, he dives into the force to try and read her, picking out a stream of worries and fears from her mind. So that’s what she was fretting about. “I’m not a Hutt, Gimrizh,” he tells her, “and I’m not in the habit of buying slaves for sex - I won’t touch you unless you want me to. If this works out, I would be training you. Having seen you in combat, I believe you could be a worthwhile investment. _That’s_ why I purchased you.”

The small presence she has in the force suddenly shuts down, like she’s slamming a door around her mind, “I - what -” she sputters, “Is that the force? Is that what you were doing?”

He didn’t think her aware enough to sense him. “What makes you say that?”

“It felt like… a hand, sifting through my thoughts,” she looks away again, acting as though she’s suddenly interested in the spacescrapers that flash by outside, “Sorry, master, I’m not complaining, I swear.”

He doesn’t try again - she’s subconsciously keeping him out right now. If he really wanted to, he imagines it would not be too difficult to break down that barrier and read through her thoughts regardless, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything at the moment. “I’m surprised you could tell what I was doing.”

“Is that - good?”

“It’s convenient for the both of us.”

The taxi stops in front of the Mezenti and he pays the droid. A few days in hyperspace will be a welcome change from this planet. Even one week on Nar Shaddaa is too long for his liking.

Gimrizh darts her eyes around the spaceport, “Are we going off world, master?”

“I must return to Dromund Kaas.”

“The capital planet of the Empire? I thought Sith lived on Korriban?”

“A misconception. Korriban in the original home for pureblood Sith - red Sith - and it still houses a number of institutes as well as the main Academy. Apart from students, overseers, and researchers, the vast majority of Sith primarily live on Dromund Kaas, as do most citizens of the Empire.”

“Oh. Thank you for explaining, master. I apologize for asking such an obvious question.”

Malavai pauses in front of the hangar bay doors and sighs, “Do not apologize for that. It’s a waste of time. If I am to be teaching you, I imagine you will be asking a number of obvious questions. If it _is_ actually a stupid question, I assure you, I won’t answer it.”

He enters the security code. The hangar doors slide open and allow them in, the cold sterile air a welcome change from the rest of this planet.

“How beautiful,” Gimrizh gasps, “What sort of ship is she, master?”

 _Horizon_ sits in the docking bay, a few maintenance workers detaching the mooring cables from the ship’s hull. While he appreciates what his ship is capable of and the comfort that it was designed to provide, he’s never really considered it beautiful. It’s sleek and effective, not a luxury to drool over. “ _Horizon_ is a _Fury-_ class Interceptor, one of the newest models the Empire manufactures. They’re exclusive to the Sith Order.”

While he heads up the gangplank, she stops and almost runs her hand over the ship’s hull, her skin hovering over the durasteel. “ _Horizon_ …” she murmurs. She drops her hand and hurries to follow him inside the ship, “Do you fly a lot, master?”

“I travel often - a requirement of the job.”

“Have you… Have you been to Tatooine?”

“Once, and I rather disliked the planet. Is there a reason you ask?”

“No, not really.”

She stands nervously at the edge of the communications room, absently scratching at her arm. The blood on her skin has started to dry and flake in places. That won’t do. Malavai will need to buy her new clothes as well, but that can wait until they arrive on Dromund Kaas. He doesn’t want to delay leaving Nar Shaddaa.

With a slight wave of the force, he opens the door to his quarters and gestures for her to follow, “I need to speak with Darth Baras before we depart. In the meanwhile, take a shower. You’re covered in blood, it’s disgusting. I’ll allow you to borrow some of my clothes as well.”

“Uh-” her cheeks flush red, “I mean, that’s not necessary, master, really.”

He grabs a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. They’ll be big on her, but they’re clean. “I told you, I’m not fond of repeating myself. Clean yourself up and wear these.”

That said, he pushes the bundle of clothes into her arms and points at the fresher. She might as well use his, the crew one has never been restocked, given the lack of a crew to use it.

“Right,” she bows her head, “Sorry, master. Thank you.”

As he leaves to holo Baras, he realizes she doesn’t have shoes. What is he _doing_? This is why he doesn’t often make such decisions on the spur of the moment. He’s thoroughly unprepared for this. He’s going to have to put a lot of effort into this project to make her be worthwhile. If it pays off though, he’ll have gained a very useful weapon.

Despite it being night time on Dromund Kaas, Baras answers the call after only a few seconds.

“Master,” Malavai greets, “Ybann the Hutt seems very enthusiastic to contact you and discuss setting up a more frequent trade. He said he would holo you later this day in fact, and mentioned how he appreciates your gifts in comparison to Rathari’s. He also made mention of how he found Rathari’s veiled threats to be quite insulting - I presume you can use that to your advantage.”

Through the mask it’s hard to tell what Baras is thinking, but this time his master doesn’t hide how thrilled he is by this turn of events, “At last. I thought those Hutts might never agree to align with either of us.”

“Ybann is fond of exotic animals and betting, keep sending him gifts and I’m sure his loyalty will hold out. He also expressed interest in getting in touch with Halidrell Setsyn.”

“That’s an easy request for me to indulge. You’ve done well. I imagine you’re eager to leave Nar Shaddaa - return to the Citadel and I’ll provide you with your next assignment. It’s not a time sensitive matter, you should have a few weeks off before leaving Dromund Kaas again if you wish it - not that you ever take time off.”

“Actually, I might. I’ve picked up a new project that could occupy my time for awhile.”

“Oh? That’s unlike you.”

“I purchased one of Ybann’s slaves, partly as a measure of goodwill, and also because I suspect the woman has a slight connection to the force. She will never be Sith, but I am curious as to how far that tenuous thread can be pushed.”

“An experiment? I can’t say I see the appeal. Slaves are so rarely useful in the long run.”

“I’m not disagreeing on any particular point, I just thought it could be interesting. It’s nothing to concern yourself with, I don’t see how this project could possibly become significant in relation to any of your plans.”

“Do what you will - I don’t particularly care. Oh, and you might want to buy cold weather gear while on Dromund Kaas.”

“You’ll be sending me to Hoth again?”

“That’s what it looks like. I await your arrival in the Citadel.”

The calls cuts out and Malavai disconnects the holo, glancing over his shoulder to where Gimrizh is awkwardly standing in the hall. “I suppose you heard that?”

Without ripped clothes and a coating of blood, she’s actually rather pretty. Her hair is clean and free of tangles now as well and Malavai’s surprised to see that it’s natural color is a rich brown. She’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “I didn’t mean to intrude, master, I just… I wasn’t intending to eavesdrop.”

“It’s no matter, nothing you overheard was classified information.” If he’s allowed to train her, she’ll find out eventually that she’s force sensitive. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, I guessed that if I could tell you were in my mind earlier, and well, why _else_ would a Sith buy me… It’s not a surprise. And if it’s… if the connection I have is that thin…” she clears her throat, “I’m to be an experiment, then?”

He nods, “I’m curious as to what you could become. Partial force sensitivity is uncommon in your species. Will this - being an experiment - be a problem for you?”

“No, master.”

“Good,” he pauses and adds, “One more thing. The man you saw over the holo is Darth Baras, my master. If you ever _do_ become something of worth, he will most certainly try to manipulate you into working for him, whether through blackmail, brute force, or bribery. If I am to train you, I need to be certain that your loyalty will be to _me_. Never to Baras.”

She bows deeply at the waist, “I understand, master. I swear my loyalty to you.”

“Have you ever flown a ship - No, I expect you wouldn’t have. Follow me into the bridge. Touch nothing, but watch.”

“Yes, master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note about titles : Libenter is latin for 'with pleasure' which honestly sums up what I think the tone of this fic will be.  
> Let me know what you think? Comments? Drop a kudos? Come yell at me on tumblr (@semper-draca)?


	2. Liberalis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title means "Of, or relating to, a free person"

Four days ago Gimrizh woke up on a hard metal bunk to the sound of one of the masters patrolling the slave quarters. Today, she wakes up in the softest bed she’s ever slept in. The faint hum of _Horizon_ ’s engines and the thick warmth of the blanket she’s wrapped in all help to ground her in the moment, remind her where she is. She checks the chrono to make sure she didn’t sleep past seven. Lord Quinn doesn’t have a lot of rules but he’s punctual and an early riser and she feels as though if he’s awake she should be too.

Better than having to wake up every morning at five, anyway. She wouldn’t have expected living with a Sith to be this cushy, not when compared with her old life on Nar Shaddaa. From what she’s heard of Sith, she imagined Lord Quinn to be far more… well… _horrible_.

That’s not to say she thinks he’s a particularly _nice_ person, but he’s been more respectful to her than anyone else ever has. He’s given her clothes and a room and she’s allowed to actually talk to him if she wants to - although she’s very careful not to be rude or sound stupid, she knows most masters can’t stand that. She’s allowed _food_ , whenever she wants it and not at set hours, that’s another thing.

She makes her way to the galley and starts boiling hot water for caf. Early on, she learned that the droid - 10-R8 - isn’t allowed to cook or use the kitchen facilities. So she’s trying to take up that task herself, eager to prove to Lord Quinn that she won’t be a waste of his money or time. At least instant caf isn’t difficult to make.

So far her new situation here keeps challenging her expectations.

Four days on board _Horizon_ and even though she’s learned more about what the force is and what people can do with it, she’s not had a single practical lesson. The first day had included a run down of how to fly this ship, how to keep it in repair, resulting in Quinn opening up the sublight engines and showing her how they functioned after she’d apparently asked the right questions. Day two had included him taking a sample of her blood and running tests on it. She’s still a bit unsure as to what midichlorians are or how they work, but she does know her count is low.

There’s a massive stack of datapads in the crew quarters for her to read as well, mostly on the history of the Sith, but a few are guides to lightsaber forms complete with demonstrative holos to explain the moves. She’s determined to have all the information memorized as soon as she possibly can.

Lord Quinn paid fifteen thousand credits for her because he thought that she was a good investment. That’s more money than she’ll ever see in her entire life. If he believes that she can learn even a fraction of what it means to be Sith, she’ll work herself to the bone trying to prove that he wasn’t wrong. She swore loyalty to him and he’s shown her more decency than she ever thought she’d get. That matters a good deal to her.

“Good morning, master,” she says as Lord Quinn steps into the galley. “Would you like some caf?”

He takes the mug she hands him absently, “We’ll be docking on Dromund Kaas shortly - I brought _Horizon_ out of hyperspace this morning. Once we arrive, I’ll need to conference with Darth Baras. Afterwards I’ll begin your training.”

There were rumors about Dromund Kaas back on Nar Shaddaa. People said that the Empire would import mass shipments of slaves for enormous construction projects, that if a master was displeased with one of their slaves they’d send them off to Kaas City for punishment. That the people who lived there were as rich as the Hutts and twice as cruel. She never believed that last one. It’s impossible to be crueler than a Hutt.

“Will I be learning how Sith fight, master?” So far, she’s just looked at the lightsaber forms, nothing else. They’re beautiful, though. Fast and elegant and powerful in a way that she’s never been.

He’s reading over a datapad and only paying her partial attention, “If you are capable of learning, then yes.”

From what she’s read, some aspects of lightsaber combat apparently require more talent in the force than she might possess. “I’ll try my best, master, I promise. Even if I _can’t_ use the force I’ll learn whatever I can to make myself useful.”

“Skill in the force isn’t always inate,” he explains, “Even the thin connection you have can be strengthened through training. The ability to access the force is one you’re born with but how often you utilize it can increase the amounts of power you’re able draw out. _How_ you use it is also a factor. Were you using the light side, which stresses only using the force when necessary, it’d be more challenging for you to build that connection.”

“But the dark side encourages the opposite,” she says, her voice wavering so that it’s almost a question. “I mean, from what you gave me to read, it says the dark side is all about power and deep emotion. So that would strengthen my ties to the force more quickly than using the light side, right master?”

“That’s the theory.”

“Why do the Jedi use the light side then? What advantage would make up for that?”

For a second she thinks that she’s made a horrible mistake and asked the wrong question - there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes that makes her panic. “There’s a lot of debate as to why the Jedi chose the light side. Some of it is propaganda, some isn’t. The official answer the Empire would give you is that the Jedi are willfully blind puritans. That’s partially true. I suspect that the Jedi are afraid of some of the physical side effects that can result from improper use of the dark side.”

She hasn’t read anything about physical changes. “Side effects?”

“Eye color, primarily,” he informs her, tapping his cheek to point out his red eyes, “Red, yellow, or orange. Some mimic the symptoms of illness - dark circles, cracked lips, pasty skin, that sort of thing.”

“Will that happen to me?”

“Only if you’re stupid enough to have no self control whatsoever. Accepting and embracing emotion is not the same thing as indulging every impulse without reason. You will encounter Sith with such physical changes. They are not more powerful than their peers, merely less stable.”

That’s settled then - she’ll never let that happen to her. “Thank you for explaining, master.”

“Of course.” He gets up to drop his empty mug in the sink, “I’d prefer you learn the truth than second hand information. I’ll be on the bridge. Be ready to land on Dromund Kaas.”

“Yes, master.”

~*~

Dromund Kaas is a beautiful world. It’s overcast, a steady drizzle of rain making the city sleek and stunning, the harsh lightning storms in the distance dazzling against the deep blue chunks of sky that peer through the clouds. Kaas City is somewhat similar to Nar Shaddaa, spacescrapers as far as the eye can see and fast moving lanes of speeder traffic overhead, but there’s none of the thick smog, the dirt, and grime. Gimrizh feels like the rain washes the city clean.

“This is the Citadel, right master?” she asks, staring at the imposing and stately building that looms overhead and disappears a thousand feet below. “The center of the Sith on Dromund Kaas?”

He just strides right through the entrance, not even stopping to look at the place as she does. Likely, he’s been here more times than she can count. “It is.”

It’s difficult not to gape at her surroundings while she follows him through the halls. There’s so much to look at, so many strange Sith wandering about. She keeps her head down and sneaks glances when no one is looking. The whole massive complex is hushed and dark, as though solemnity sneaks up on the people who enter.

“ID cards please,” a desk clerk asks at the office they stop at.

Quinn hands over what she assumes is his own, “She doesn’t have one. I need releasement papers, an apprentice registration form, and she will need her own identification issued.”

What?

The man behind the desk hands over a datapad and starts explaining what to fill in where and which dotted line to sign on but Gimrizh’s brain is still wrapped up around that one tiny phrase. Releasement papers. As in, for her release. As in, for her official, _legal_ , release from slavery. A thing that she’s never even entertained as a possibility because it’s so outlandish and dream like and she’s only known Lord Quinn for a week and she’s not _done_ anything for him yet.

Freedom has always been something she was told you had to work for, had to earn, like saving up loose credits that people drop that accumulate into something of worth. Not something that just happens like this.

“Enter your full name and then provide your fingerprints,” the clerk tells her.

It takes a moment for that sentence to push through the thoughts in her head. She’s so stunned that she almost doesn’t hear what he says at first. “I - yes, of course - where do I -?”

Quinn hands her the datapad and she stares at his red eyes in utmost confusion for a moment before he glances away.

Everything seems to make sense, although some of the legal jargon is beyond her, the gist of the form seems to be that yes, she’ll be legally freed as soon as she signs. She does, her hand shaking as she grips the lightpen. Then her fingerprints are entered into the database and the clerk takes back the form and that’s it.

After twenty years, she’s not a slave anymore.

There’s still a shiver in her spine but apart from that she doesn’t feel as different as she had been expecting.

“And then the apprentice registration forms are here,” the clerk continues, as though the planet hasn’t stopped spinning for a moment. “There’s a small issue given the apprentice’s lack of surname, but I can just register it as a species-based name exemption. I’m copying all of the personal details over from the releasement papers as well except for the fingerprints. You’ll need to give those again.”

The clerk points at the datapad and Gimrizh presses her fingertips to the screen again. Then she’s directed to a holo lens that scans her facial features and that gets added to her files as well as an ID card.

A thin plexi rectangle is handed to her, a mirror of the one Lord Quinn presented earlier. There’s a randomly generated number at the bottom and a set of clearance codes alongside her name and rank - apprentice - at the top. It doesn’t even _mention_ ‘former slave’ anywhere on it. It’s like she was born free.

“A monetary account has been automatically created for you and your salary will be deposited into that account on a monthly basis,” the clerk continues, “Details can be found on the holonet with your identification.”

“I’ll have credits?” she asks, her jaw hanging open.

Lord Quinn finishes signing his copy of the forms, “All apprentices are given a salary by the Sith Order - that amount is increased when promoted.”

Slowly she closes her mouth before it becomes rude. “Oh.”

“Do you have everything?”

“I - yes, I do.”

“Thank you for your time,” Quinn says to the clerk before leaving the office.

She scurries after him, “Wait - master, I - I get the aspect of registering me as an apprentice, and the identification stuff, as well as the money - to an extent. But - sorry, I’m not trying to seem ungrateful, I’m really not, I am _so_ grateful, I swear, it’s just - Why? Why free me? You paid good money for me.”

“You’ve read through the datapads I gave you?” he asks.

Through everything, twice. “Yes, master.”

He’s heading towards the main entrance again, walking just a little faster than her. “What’s the last line of the Sith Code?”

“The force will set us free?” she quotes.

“There’s your answer. Here,” Lord Quinn hands her a piece of flimsi with an address written on it in neat handwriting, “I’ll meet you there after I finish speaking to Baras.”

She takes the flimsi and tries not to look too hopeful - a useless venture, she realizes, given that he can apparently sense her emotions through the force, “And then training, master?”

That almost seems to amuse him, “Yes, then training. Oh,” he pulls a card key out of his pocket, “You’ll need this as well.”

He waves down the first taxi that flies past and she sees him step back into the Sith Sanctum as she steps into the speeder.

It’s only after she gives the address to the taxi droid that she realizes that where she’s going is more than likely Lord Quinn’s home. It seems so obvious in hindsight because of course where _else_ would he send her. She’s just not used to this level of personal contact between her and someone so obviously above her.

With Hutts she’d rarely so much as see whoever had actually bought her, instead she’d be given orders through slave masters or other paid servants. They’d hold the controls to her collar and tell her what to do and she was free to indirectly hate them and the Hutts. While she expects being an apprentice to be different than that - she’s encouraged to speak directly to him, a strange and unfamiliar level of intimacy. She imagines the feeling might be similar for an average citizen of the Empire given the chance to conference directly with a member of the Dark Council.

Although Lord Quinn occasionally unnerves her, it’s mostly because she feels uncertain as to what he expects from her and unable to provide whatever it is he wants. The fact that he’s so clearly above her and yet shows her respect that she doesn’t deserve only makes her struggle to not let him down. The fact that he freed her makes her want to live up the Sith Code, to those ideals he holds.

“Destination,” the taxi droid says flatly, stopping the speeder at the top floor of one of Kaas City’s residential spacescrapers.

 _I was right_ , she thinks as she steps out onto the platform, _this is his home_.

The key card lets her in without trouble even though she’d almost been hoping it wouldn’t work because it’s so awkward standing in the entrance to Quinn’s home, uncertain what to do. It’s so strangely personal. She gets the feeling that she shouldn’t be here despite having been specifically ordered otherwise.

The foyer leads into the first floor. Everything here is so neat, barely lived in at all. It reminds her of the interior of _Horizon_ , the same standard Imperial aesthetic, the pristine walls and floors, the lack of decoration. Even the light fixtures have the same clinical feel to them. There’s an office to her right that she’s tempted to look inside but eventually turns away from - there’s likely classified information somewhere in there and she’s not going to mess around with that.

Past the office is a large open room with sets of lightsabers and vibroblades on the walls. Those weapons are practically drool worthy, the sort of thing that she used to pray to get her hands on in the arena.

Unable to stop herself, she carefully picks up one of the smaller vibroblades. It’s as long as her forearm, made from something slightly different than durasteel - when she taps her nail against it the vibrations are different. The workmanship is stunning, light as anything and perfectly balanced.

Riding off a burst of courage, she flips the knife into the air and catches it in a reverse grip. The handle fits into her hand like the craftsman had made it for her alone.

After a few experimental slashes through the air, she places it back where it belongs and glances over at the lightsabers. Lord Quinn has a number of them, the hilts an array of different sizes and designs, some more crude and boxy, some incredibly defined and elegant. She’s never seen a lightsaber ignited before.

 _Don’t you dare touch_ , she tells herself firmly. It’s likely that she’d cut her own arm off if she tried without instruction.

She keeps walking before she breaks that promise. There’s a garage at the end of the hall that she can’t help but take a look at.

At a guess, she’d say Quinn must spend a lot of time here. Tools and engine bits are lying all over a workbench, sorted into boxes of course, but it still feels more cluttered in a way the rest of the house doesn't. There’s a gleaming set of sockets left open, half of them gone from the container, a piece of flimsi with another elegantly written note on it left on top of the box.

And then there’s the speeders. Oh stars, there’s only two but Gimrizh has always loved the sleek power of speeder bikes and these two are stunning. She hesitantly gets a little closer because here the temptation to touch the bikes is so much greater than with the lightsabers before.

One is a Lbhosan _Torch_ , a burnished red color with it’s engine sitting next to it on the floor. The other is a Rosche, only she can’t tell which make it is because half the outer frame has been dissected and is spread out on the floor.

She slowly peeks under the tarp covering the _Torch_ engine and finds out that it’s not the standard Lbhosan engine at all - it’s a modified speeder engine. Normally that’d never fit inside a bike. This one has been partly redesigned to make it more compact but it’s still distinctly from a land speeder. She can’t tell the brand though, both maker plates have been peeled off and it’s in such a different form from whatever it was originally that she can’t tell who made it by the design.

The tarp gets removed entirely and put to the side. She sits down and takes a quick look under part of the casing. That’s dumb. Some of it - the bits that share qualities with a standard sub-light engine on a ship - is practically brilliant. But there’s also some really bad mistakes in here. Mixed up red couplings, for one. No power converter, for another.

“Hmmm.” She leans back and wonders if there are the right spare parts lying around.

There’s the sound of the door opening and she panics, jumping to her feet and throwing the tarp back over the engine. It’s too late though, she knows as soon as she turns around that Lord Quinn saw her.

“Master,” she says quickly, bowing her head, “I am so sorry - I didn’t mean to touch anything - I promise I didn’t -”

He cuts her off with a sharp look. “Did you tamper with the engine?”

“No, no, I just wanted to take a look,” she promises.

“And?” Lord Quinn crosses his arms and she gets the feeling that she’s really messed up this time, “What did you think?”

Is he testing her? “Well that’s a land speeder engine that’s been sized down to fit into a bike. I have no _idea_ what happened to the repulsorlift knot containment but it’s _incredible_. The only problem is some of the red couplings are out of place and there’s no power converter - it’d never run properly and you’d need a massive exhaust port. Er - not that I’m an expert, I just like mechanics - please ignore me, master.”

“The red couplings…” He frowns at the engine, “Really?”

She nervously pushes the tarp aside again and points to the ones in question, “Those should be reversed.”

Lord Quinn leans forward, apparently unaware of the fact that he’s less than an inch away from her. She takes a step back instinctively, out of habit. She knows better - she’s never been allowed to stand so close to someone without being ordered to. “We spent six months trying to figure out that problem,” he says to himself, “and you see it in a few minutes. How?”

“I fixed engines when I was young,” she explains, “Small hands are good for that.”

“Ah.” He straightens up and goes to the workbench, writing down another note to himself, “Any other comments on the speeders?”

“Not a comment per say, but can I ask a question, master?”

“Go ahead.”

“What model Rosche is that? It’s been taken apart and half the models are only distinguishable by the frame because they focused on aesthetic over function for the year three series.”

“It’s an _Ice Cat_ \- from the year five series.”

She can see that now that she looks for it. The _Ice Cat_ has a very distinctive frame, which explains why she couldn’t identify it earlier. That’s a good model though, slightly older, but their maximum altitude is ten meters where most Rosche models only manage seven. Of course, the steering is a bit more jerky than other models, so they’re not the most popular to fly.

Quinn hums thoughtfully, staring at the engine. “I was trying to decrease the engine size by removing the power converter but if that’d cause significant issues…”

“Wait,” she blinks stupidly for a second, “You modified the knot containment, master?”

He barely looks at her, “I had assistance.”

Before she can articulate how awed she is, he leaves - and really, why would a Sith Lord want a slave’s - even a former slave’s - praise? She’d be insulted if she were him. Quinn beckons for her to follow and she makes sure to return to the tarp to it’s proper place before she trails after him to the room with the lightsabers in it.

“We’ll be departing for Hoth tomorrow evening but before then I want to get you started on lightsaber combat,” he explains. “And there’s one other thing. Turn around.”

She does so, uncertain as to why, “Can I ask…?”

There’s a pinch at the back of her neck and then cold air touches her skin and makes her gasp. The collar’s gone. She hasn’t - she can’t remember the last time that happened. She honestly has no recollection of it ever being off in her entire life. It feels strange, her neck feels off balance without the weight. It’s almost as though he cut off one of her fingers, like part of her body has gone missing.

He places the collar and the controller on the table. “Through victory, our chains are broken. Now, lightsaber combat. I expect you’ve read some of the technical material?”

“Yes, master. I’ve read all the datapads you gave me on the subject.”

“Good. That will help give you a theoretical grounding.”

Lord Quinn takes his outer robe off and hangs it up. He selects a practice vibrosword from the rack, testing it to make sure that the safety settings are locked on before he hands it over to her.

“This is heavier than a lightsaber, isn’t it?” she asks, weighing the blade’s balance. It’s flawless, if a bit visibly used, going by the small dents on it’s surface. Apart from that, she imagines that it could kill easily - if she could turn on the edge. As it is, it’s a blunt instrument. She supposes it’s too much to hope for that he’d give her an actual weapon so early into her apprenticeship. She should consider herself lucky that she’s allowed to train with these at all.

He selects a similar blade for himself, although she notes that he keeps his lightsaber attached to his belt. “The energy blade of a lightsaber is weightless, but resistant to changes in motion. Why do you think only Sith and Jedi utilize lightsabers and why do you think I am not letting you have one yet?”

“Um.” She’s never really thought about it. It just seemed to be the way the galaxy works, “I suppose it’s because you need to use the force to use a lightsaber?”

“Precisely,” he confirms, “What do you think is the major problem with a lightsaber?”

“Well… it’s easy to cut your own arm off, master?”

Quinn honest to gods _chuckles_ at that, startling her. “Actually, you’re right. It might seem stupid, but that’s the reason non-force sensitives don’t wield lightsabers. In order to properly use on, you need the heightened awareness that the force can provide. Otherwise, yes, you might cut your arm off.”

“Do I have that?” she asks, “Will I be able to use a lightsaber?”

He gives her a strange look, “I _saw_ you use the enhanced sense the force provides. It isn’t all fancy tricks, some of the most crucial aspects of the force are the physical ones - increased strength and speed, the ability to sense what’s coming next in combat, an innate awareness of your surroundings. You already can utilize all of that. I’m going to attempt to teach you how to _consciously_ use it, as well as the more advanced techniques.”

It’s strange to hear that those abilities are derived from the force. She’d always attributed it to luck - that knowing someone was trying to stab her back was just chance, beating down a stronger opponent just good fortune. “There are… styles, aren’t they? To fight with?”

“Lightsaber combat has seven primary styles and a number of substyles. It’s all very fluid, things can be changed and manipulated to fit your own preferences as you choose. Some Sith are staunch traditionalists when it comes to combat, but it’s really all about what you can do to secure victory.” There’s a light in his eyes as he talks and she finds herself drawn in.

“Passion to strength, strength to victory,” she remembers. “That’s… that’s the code, right master?”

He pauses, “Strength to power, power to victory. You forgot a line.”

“Sorry, master, I’ll properly memorize it after this lesson.”

“See that you do. Do you have any of the forms’ base drills memorized?”

“Yes.” Each style had a small holo demonstrating a series of basic moves and she’d walked through them dozens of times on _Horizon_. “Er - Shii-cho, Makashi, Ataru, and Juyo. I couldn’t get the other three down very well, but I’ll try my best.”

He almost looks impressed. “That will be convenient. Makashi is my prefered style. If it suits you, I’d be be able to give you detailed instruction on the form.”

Makashi - the second form of lightsaber combat. It’s oriented around dueling and smooth motions with the lightsaber, as opposed to Shii-Cho, which is more blocky. If that’s what Lord Quinn prefers, if that’s what he’d like to teach her, she’ll study that style with everything she has until she’s up to his standards.

Quinn changes his grip on the practice blade and shifts into what she recognizes as the opening stance for Makashi. One foot slightly forward, blade in one hand and pointed at the ground. “If you have an aptitude for the style, let’s find out. Attack with the first base drill. I will take the defensive set of techniques.”

She moves to match him, her body feeling caught off balance by the unfamiliar form. No matter, with enough practice she can improve.

The first strike is easy, a one handed lunge - Quinn blocks by stepping to the side and tapping her sword out of the way. She follows with a slash that incorporates one of Makashi’s signature twirling wrist movements and he blocks at shoulder height. That was supposed to be a blow to the head only she fumbled the wrist movements. When she raises the blade for an over the head strike, she’s thrown off again by the lack of a collar digging into her shoulders.

As she progresses through the fifteen base attacks and counters it becomes clear just how out of her depth she is.

Quinn’s blocks are effortless, his transitions from basic defense to the counter is seamless and breathtakingly elegant. And it’s obvious he’s not even trying while she’s struggling to put her feet and hands where they’re supposed to go.

At the end of the set, her face is bright red with shame. “I’m sorry, master.”

“You’ll improve.” It almost sounds like a guarantee and she thinks he’s definitely displeased with her performance, “I don’t expect you to be exemplary from the start.”

He waves his hand at one of the dueling droids. It lurches awake and hovers over to her, raising the practice blade attached to its arm.

“Go through the base drill again,” he orders, “I’ll watch and correct you.”

She takes up the first stance again and he uses the flat of his practice blade to slide her right foot back.

“You’ll unbalance yourself like that.”

“Sorry, master.”

Her first strike is acceptable, and then he has her stop in the middle of her second attack.

“What are you _doing_ with your wrist?” he asks, a mix of exasperated and confused. He stands next to her, mirroring her movements. She gapes as he executes the move perfectly and she swears his wrist is not supposed to bend that far. “It’s one continuous motion, not two. Try it again, slowly this time so you can work it out.”

The movement is still uncomfortable and awkward, but she goes through it twice more at his direction and comes out with something approximating the inhuman way Quinn’s wrist bends.

“Better,” he allows, “Continue.”

She moves on to an overhead strike and he stops her almost immediately.

“You’re bending forward far too much - why?”

“It just feels stronger than way?” She lowers the blade, “Sorry, master. I’ll stop.”

“Raise your blade.” When she does so, holding the sword above her head, he steps in. He places one hand on her lower back and one on her stomach, adjusting her core so that she’s no longer likely to lose her balance and topple forwards. “Don’t lean forward again doing this, you’ll overextend. Now - strike.”

She brings the weapon down, hoping that the heat in her cheeks is from exertion and not the fact that he’s _still_ touching her and she can’t remember the last time someone touched her without trying to kill or hurt her. He keeps doing it too, this time lowering her shoulders when she moves to a guard. It shouldn’t make it this difficult to concentrate.

The forms are still clumsy as she moves through them but she completes the set again.

When she’s done, Quinn steps back and frowns contemplatively at her, “I am uncertain if it’s the style that you are unsuited to or something else. Either way, you need to work on this.”

“How long do I have?” she asks, looking down at the weapon in her hands. She doesn’t know what she’s doing wrong.

“You’re my apprentice now, you are here to learn, not here to meet a schedule. There isn’t a set deadline for this and I don’t need your skills to be at a certain level by any specific date,” he replies. “That said, if I think you’re slacking I will be most displeased.”

She quickly shakes her head, “I won’t, master.”

“We do leave for Hoth soon. It’s theoretically a diplomatic mission, but I’ll be shocked if it doesn’t dissolve into combat. If you have the basics at least before then, it would probably help you immensely.” Quinn has the droid start up the defense pattern again, “Keep practicing. You have all day.”

“Master?” she asks, before he steps out the door, “Will I ever be able to use a lightsaber?”

He glances over his shoulder at her, “If you can have that drill memorized to my standards before we arrive on Hoth, I’ll allow you to practice with a lightsaber. Keep up a learning curve like that, and I’ll consider letting you construct your own and carry it into combat. You’ll have to earn it - otherwise you’ll end up in that situation of accidentally cutting your own arm off.”

A lightsaber would be so much more useful than a simple vibroblade. She vows to learn the form before they arrive on Hoth and strikes out at the training droid.

Hours later, when she’s sweaty and exhausted, she finally hangs up the practice blade, lingering over the collar that Quinn left behind on the table.

It’s something she’s had for so long - the only physical thing she really has left from her old life and it’s painful but she can’t leave it. She can’t just throw away who she is - was. When she leaves, she takes the collar and the remote with her.

~*~

It’s almost seven in the evening when Malavai finally takes a break from the report on the Hoth situation. While things on Hoth develop slowly, this is slightly more of an urgent problem. It looks as though the Republic is somehow getting inside information from the Imperial base there. Which means either security has been slacking enough for a slicer to break in or there’s a spy. One is solved by a thorough examination of the Imperial databanks on Hoth and the other is solved by a swift execution.

He’s still going through a summary on the specifics of the information leak when he steps into the kitchen to find Gimrizh looking through the conservator.

“...What are you doing?” he asks, more surprised than anything else. There’s an array of random ingredients spread out on the countertop, things that he’s certain would taste horribly together. It’s all a bit of a confusing mess, although she seems determined enough to make it work.

She jumps, clutching a jug of blue milk to her chest, “Oh, well I got through the first forms to the point where I felt more comfortable with them, and it was getting late so I decided to cook dinner - for you, er for us? Is there something in particular you’d like?”

It’s been years since someone tried to cook him dinner. “Why? Apprentices are not expected to perform domestic duties. I thought I told you before.”

“Well technically, master, you said that you had a droid for that, but Ten remained behind on _Horizon_ ,” she reasons, “Also I wanted to thank you for teaching me, even though I’m not very good.”

He’s uncertain where to begin with that comment. Firstly, the presumption that teaching her is a burden - if it was, he’d never have taken her on to begin with. Secondly is her own apparent lack of self awareness. No beginner to lightsaber combat is excellent from the start. Everyone, without fail, even the Red Sith that learn from a young age, are terrible when they first start out. The fact that she’s clearly talented despite that lack of experience is a point in her favor, if anything.

Instead he picks something easier to tackle, “Ten isn’t allowed to cook because _I_ cook,” he explains. He takes the jug of blue milk out of her arms and puts it back in the conservator, “If you insist, you may help.”

“Okay,” she agrees, “What do you want me to do?”

Since he’s been away from Dromund Kaas for so long, he’s low on fresh ingredients. There’s some dry goods in the cupboards still though. Really, this is why he doesn’t make such spur of the moment decisions. He hands her a block of cheese, “Grate this. Hm… I need to restock next time I’ll be here for an extended period.”

“I can do that!” she immediately suggests.

Why is she so eager to help? “That won’t be necessary. Actually, before we leave tomorrow, I’d like you to go shopping and purchase an assortment of clothes including something appropriate for Hoth. I don’t expect you’ve been there before, but the temperature is never above freezing and deadly ice storms are common.”

“Can I ask why we’ll be going there?”

“I’ll be there to fix a security issue for the Imperial base on Hoth. Direct confrontation with the Republic will be guaranteed, as I will need to remind them that any aggression based on stolen information constitutes a breach of the Treaty of Coruscant. Not that the Treaty has stopped them before, but it’s a clear warning that is more likely to be listened to the more attention this dispute attracts.”

“Do the Empire and the Republic break the Treaty often?”

“If they think they can get away with it, yes.”

“If the Treaty is that tenuous, why hasn’t it fully broken yet? Why are the Empire and the Republic still adhering to it if they’re constantly going behind each others’ backs to spy on one another? What’s the point of a Treaty that… well, _pointless_?”

“The Empire signed the Treaty to cease open war with the Republic. Neither side could sustain much more direct conflict - there were multiple strains on resources and many casualties.”

“I thought the Empire bombed Coruscant though, right master? Wouldn’t that mean the Empire won?”

Malavai remembers being irritated by the same thing when the Treaty was first announced. The Empire could have pushed for a complete surrender, they could have included more stipulations into the Treaty that favoured them, there were numerous options that they could have taken to secure the high ground, given that they held Coruscant and it’s citizens in a chokehold. Instead, the Emperor had given the order to sign the fairest draft of the Treaty and that had been it. While the Emperor shouldn’t be questioned, this was one of the first times Malavai can remember distrusting the Sith government.

“It wasn’t that simple, and at the end of the war, it was the Emperor’s decision. He chose to sign the Treaty - presumably he thought it was the best option for the Empire,” Malavai says with a sigh.

She hesitantly continues, “... You disagree, don’t you, master?”

“If you are to be Sith, you need to know that the Emperor cannot be questioned - and certainly not publicly.”

“Of course. Sorry, master, I won’t.”

“Here.” He passes her a cutting board, “It’s not worth thinking about right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! There's some plotish stuff happening!  
> So this fic is going to be pretty episodic for a bit later on, please comment if there's something you guys want to see or want to have happen and I am always down for suggestions. Let me know if there's something you liked or disliked in the comments or just generally drop me a line ~


	3. Algidus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's been six months but in my defense I have no defense  
> Algidus: bleak, or cold.

“This planet is strangely beautiful, master,” Gimrizh remarks as a shuttle drops them off in Dorne Base. “Cold, but… I’m not sure, it’s more _open_ than any planet I’ve been to before.”

Lord Quinn glares at the snowflakes swirling around them as though they cause him great personal offence and tugs his collar closer to his chin. He doesn’t stop to admire the planet like she does and instead heads into the massive durasteel bunkers that comprise the Imperial settlements on this planet. “Beautiful, perhaps. Keep in mind that many people die due to ice storms, blizzards, and hypothermia here. It’s more deadly than anything else.”

“Maybe you’re just not giving this planet a chance?” she suggests before fully thinking that sentence through. That might be too rude.

“If I am, it’s for a very legitimate reason,” Quinn replies.

Both outside and inside the base, the air smells of sharp cold metal in a way that makes Gimrizh’s nose numb. She’s really grateful that she’s wrapped up in a heavy coat because otherwise this weather would turn her into an ice cube. It’s slightly less instantly freezing indoors though, if only because there’s no wind in the bunker.

That doesn’t diminish her appreciation of this planet. It might be harsh, true, but it isn’t Nar Shaddaa.

An Imperial rushes up to Lord Quinn as they move through the base. “My lord,” the soldier says with a somewhat awkward bow, “I’m Commander Lanklyn. Welcome to Hoth, we’re very glad to have you here.”

“Well _I_ am _not_ glad to be here,” Quinn sharply retorts, “An information leak dangerous enough to force me to come to this planet isn’t anything to be happy about, now is it, commander?”

Gimrizh tries not to snicker as the commander suddenly changes track. “Uh - no, of course not, my lord,” Lanklyn stutters, “I have more regrettable news then. The Republic moved up their timetable. Instead of meeting to discuss this later in the week, as scheduled, they’re - well they’re here right now.”

Quinn gestures for Lanklyn to lead the way, and they set off towards one of the conference rooms. “That’s audacious of them.”

“We received word when your ship entered the system and I’ve been stalling them since then; I figured you would prefer to handle the situation.”

“Who arrived as part of their delegation?”

“Commander Janis, an ensign, three commandos. They’re not here for a fight.”

“There’s a surprise.”

Lanklyn steps out of the way as Lord Quinn enters a conference room in the middle of Dorne Base.

There’s a massive holo table displaying a map of Hoth’s nearby surface area in the center of the room, and the five Republic officers standing on the other end, looking remarkably unphased by the numerous Imperial soldiers standing guard around the room. Gimrizh carefully stands a few feet behind Quinn when he takes his place at the head of the holo table.

“Lord Quinn,” the Commander - Janis - says, straightening herself up with a stern look in her eyes, “Good to see you’ve finally arrived. I’m afraid the circumstances under which we’re meeting are rather unfortunate.”

If Quinn is a master of anything, Gimrizh would say it’s disapproving glares. Just by staring down the Republic Commander it feels as though the room suddenly became icier than it is outside. “It _is_ unfortunate. I’ve heard some of the claims you’re leveling against the Empire’s operation here. Consider yourself lucky that what you’re saying is only speculative.”

“Speculative?” She scoffs, “We have missives from the Empire discussing encroaching onto Hoth territory that’s currently occupied by Republic forces. That would constitute an attack on the Republic.”

“Illegally obtained missives.”

“You act as though the Empire doesn’t have spies within our ranks.”

“And you are acting as though the Republic would sanction a preemptive counterattack for something that no one is certain will happen.”

Janis grits her teeth together, “The Northern slopes of the Fissure are Republic territory and they are going to stay that way. If the Empire wants to encroach there, you’ll find doubled patrols and far tighter security at Aurek Base. I wouldn’t risk it, even if someone in the Empire can find a good excuse for how such an attack wouldn’t breach the Treaty.”

“Then it’s a good thing that the Empire does not, and _did_ not, have plans for the Northern section of the Fissure,” Quinn calmly replies.

“I’m sure.” There’s a second there when Gimrizh thinks that maybe Janis is going to let this go at that, before the commander adds, “And the information we have gathered _will_ be reported to Republic high command, don’t think it won’t be.”

He just nods, “I’d expect nothing less. Now if you’re done threatening the Empire…?”

Janis looks slightly furious, but Quinn’s admitted nothing - legally, as far as Gimrizh is aware, there’s nothing the commander can do without stepping into dangerous territory. From what she’s read, the Treaty talks a lot about how allegations can be brought forward, and the commander will be violating that if there’s no proof.

“Very well,” Janis says at last.

The Republic delegation marches out, like a storm cloud leaving the room.

Gimrizh waits until she can’t hear them anymore before hesitantly remarking, “That seemed to go alright.”

“She’ll be back if we don’t find whoever the hell this spy is,” Quinn comments. He glances at Lanklyn, “Have there been any more information leaks since I was sent for? I want to know if the information package I received while in hyperspace is still accurate.”

Lanklyn nods, “Yes, my lord, it is. There have been no new data files that we’ve found in Republic hands. Now that the delegation has left, I’ll explain the situation here for you.”

“No need.” Quinn cuts him off. He presses a button on the holo terminal and zooms in on a section of the border between Imperially occupied territory and Republic. “The Imperial outpost here, that’s where I’ve determined the information leak is coming from. I tracked the different datafiles that we _know_ made their way into Republic hands, and the only base on Hoth that every file passed through is _this_ one.”

“What about Dorne Base? I mean - this one is the biggest?” Gimrizh hesitantly speaks up, “I sort of assumed that all Imperial datafiles on the planet would pass through the central outpost? Sorry, master, I don’t actually know, it’s just a guess.”

She catches an expression of open approval flash across Quinn’s lips before he replies, “No, you’re right. Dorne Base was a second possibility, but it’s got tighter security. There was a personnel sweep less than two weeks ago in Dorne Base, and they scan the databases here daily. None of the smaller bases have that level of security, and it’s far easier for records to be destroyed in a location that reports to the Empire with far less frequency.”

Lanklyn looks dumbfounded, “But what about the Fissure Missive? We ruled out Cherek Outpost in our sweep because that missive never went through their system.”

“Not necessarily,” Quinn says, “That missive went through Dorne Base, to the Fissure Outpost, but since it was only a _potential_ idea at the time, it wasn’t flagged as classified and went through the system with lowered security. It could have been intercepted by a number of Imperial outposts along the way - it’s not relevant to the data.”

“Hold on, are you suggesting that one of the men in Cherek Outpost sliced our own system?”

“That’s one of two possibilities. The other is that the Republic has a tap on the mainframe there, we can’t rule that option out. If that’s the case, Cherek Outpost is staffed by idiots. At this point, you should hope it _is_ a spy,” he says pointedly, “and not incompetence.”

“Of course, my lord,” Lanklyn agrees. “If there’s any assistance I can provide you with -”

Quinn cuts him off. “Gimrizh,” he says, turning to her, “You’re my apprentice, what would you suggest?”

“Well…” She takes a moment to think, a little caught off guard. “I suppose the first thing to do would be figure out whether it’s a spy or not. To do that… you could use the force? Go to Cherek Outpost and go through the minds of everyone there? It’d be slow, but it’d probably work and you’d be certain to get the right answer.”

Her hearts soar when he nods in approval. “A good suggestion. It would provide a reliable result and the only resource we’d be expending is my time. But I think there’s a faster way.” He addresses the commander again, “Holo Lieutenant Tran - she’s in charge of Cherek Outpost, yes? Tell her to announce that I will be arriving in a few hours. Make sure the outpost knows. Then have her silently put the outpost on lockdown - no one leaves the perimeter.”

“You’re going to try and scare the spy out of hiding?” she guesses.

“I want to conclude my business here as soon as possible. We’ll see who tries to run and then use the force to determine if they’re our spy.”

Commander Lanklyn salutes, “I’ll holo Tran right away, my lord.”

“And we’ll require a speeder.”

“There’s a transportation pad outside, take whatever you need.”

~*~

“A spy?” Tran’s jaw falls open in shock, “Shit.”

Malavai’s not particularly interested in wasting time explaining the full situation to her. Now that Cherek is on a full lockdown their time is limited if they want to catch the spy. The lockdown can be broken eventually, especially given the high likelihood that the spy in question is skilled at slicing. Any time spent here is time that they could be giving this spy and that’s unacceptable. He has no tolerance for traitors.

Instead, he gives her command team the orders himself. “Get every security holo up and running, we need to see who runs.”

The command here is small, only a handful of officers, most of which look like they’ve spent one too many years stuck at this base. This pointless stalemate over who gets what bits of Hoth territory grates on Malavai’s nerves. What a pointless use of Imperial resources.

Even so, every officer in the room scrambles to obey his commands. The terminals light up with blue holo footage.

“Master,” Gimrizh asks quietly, following behind him as he watches the security footage for any signs of runner. “What if the spy left before we arrived?”

That _is_ a possibility. “A risk we had to take to catch them. Regardless, they wouldn’t have gotten far, not in such cold weather. If they tried to take a speeder, that would have been noticed and reported. Either we find them inside the Outpost, or we’ll find their dead body in the ice once the lockdown is lifted.” He gestures to the terminals, “See what you can observe. We’ll be continuing your lightsaber education once we return to _Horizon_ , but for now this will be your training.”

She bows, “Yes, master.”

Malavai wanders around the room, looming over the officer’s shoulders to see what’s happening in the Outpost. It’s a relatively small place, basically just a datahub and a patrol station. It’s almost understandable that it was overlooked by Lanklyn on a first pass. Not forgivable, of course it was still a critical oversight, but understandable.

“I’m sorry you had to arrive on Hoth in such unfortunate circumstance,” Tran apologizes. She keeps her distance, as most non-sith tend to. “Me and my team will do our utmost to ensure we do not let this spy escape.”

“You had better. Regardless of my wishes, it will be both your head and mine on the chopping block should this fail.” And Baras would consider Malavai to be of much greater use than some Lieutenant.

To her credit, he can’t sense more than the usual fear from her, and she just gives a sharp salute, “Of course, my lord. I will ensure we do not fail.”

“Are there any areas of the Outpost that aren’t covered by security holos?”

“No, not within the perimeter. We can’t install much once you get about a hundred meters out into the snow.”

“And you haven’t seen anyone leave the base since I told you to initiate lockdown?”

“Well, the guards patrolling the Outpost haven’t, or they would have reported it. I… I suppose it’s possible one of them could be the spy.”

“How about background checks? Security sweeps?”

“Everyone in this base has come back clean, and our last check was a month ago. Nothing showed up.”

“We have evidence that his leak has been going on for longer than a month, Lieutenant. I recommend that you consider your security procedures carefully and work on improving them. Obviously they don’t yield accurate results. Any more information leaks, and the Republic might very well be within their right to attack on Hoth.”

“I… I understand, my lord. We’ll tighten our security.”

“Master?” Gimrizh looks up from the screen she’s been staring at. “I think this might be who you’re looking for. He’s trying to open one of these panels -”

Every single light in the base goes out.

One of the officers screams out of surprise at the darkness.

A black out. Damn. Malavai reluctantly admits a slight cleverness on the spy’s part. With a hiss, he ignites his lightsaber, illuminating the room in red. “Comm every guard patrolling the perimeter! I want that man’s head!”

“Yes, my lord!” Tran repeats his orders into the tactical comm on her wrist.

He snaps back to the team of officers, “Get every technician you have here on the problem _immediately_. There’s only so much we can do without power and it’s obvious that the spy is attempting to make his escape. We cannot lose him now. Someone send word to Dorne Base and keep them informed.”

There’s a chorus of acknowledgement from the officers as they get to work.

One of them in the back swears, “My- my vibroblades are gone! Krething hells, I had them before the power went out!”

“Irdis!” Tran barks, “Do you still have a blaster?”

“Yeah but…” he balks, patting down his empty blade holsters, “I swear, sir, I had them just a moment ago.”

There are more important problems. Malavai turns around, ignoring the officer. “It’s irrelevant, the spy was never in this room. Gimrizh -”

She’s gone.

It’s hard to see in the dark, but he can’t sense her in the room either, and even as he turns his lightsaber around to get a better look, she’s still not here. Damn it, she didn’t seem the type to run off in such a manner. “Where is my apprentice? Did anyone see her leave?”

“N-no,” Tran admits, “I didn’t.”

“Get to work,” Malavai orders before storming out of the room.

Wherever she is, she can’t have gotten far. He reaches out in the force and finds her presence, latching on so that he can track her down. She’s moving quickly. Whatever made her leave it must have been time-sensitive.

As he hurries down one of the Outpost’s corridors, the thought occurs to him that she might have tried to escape. That she might be making a run for it on her own. But no, that’s not the case. He’d have sensed it in her. As quickly as she’s learning, she’s not yet capable of hiding something that important from him. Besides, her dedication to him seems so genuine. She couldn’t have faked that. Could she?

Either way, he needs to find her before she freezes to death. He has spent far too much on her for it to all be thrown away like this. And she’s his apprentice. He didn’t give her permission to die. He won’t _let_ her die. It’d be a waste. Of his money - his time - his effort - no, it’s a waste of _her potential_. She might never have more than a slight connection to the force but what he’s seen from her holds such promise, and that’s with only two weeks of training. Imagine what she could become with a year under his tutelage.

Malavai stops as her presence in the force does too. Gimrizh is… she’s walking back towards him, it seems.

It’s actually impressive, he can tell that she’s reaching out for him in the force, although she’s quite bad at it. He’d been trying to let an apprentice bond naturally grow and this is a promising step towards it. It isn’t him pushing, _she’s_ reaching for _him_.

He can hear the sound of her footsteps before he sees her.

When she turns the corner, the glow of his lightsaber shines on her, bathing her in red light as though some sort of avenging spirit.

“Master!” She’s relieved to see him, hurrying in her steps towards him. “The mission is complete.”

He can barely focus on her voice when he looks at her. In her right hand are the two vibroblades she stole, splattered with blood. And in her left, a severed head. It’s staring out with sightless eyes, dripping blood onto the durasteel floor.

“What -”

Hells, she ran after the spy herself? How monumentally stupid - even if she stole that officer’s vibroknives, her skill with a lightsaber is so small, and she’s never fought someone who’s armed with a blaster, as this spy almost certainly was.

In a moment of anger he’d said that he wanted the man’s head. It hadn’t even been an order and she’d… she’d just taken him literally, done as he’d inadvertently asked without concern for her own safety. When he’d taken her as an apprentice, he hadn’t expected such unquestioning loyalty. That’s oddly endearing.

He hadn’t wanted her to risk her life like that.  

“Ah.”

She flips the knives over and presents them to him, handle first. “I apologize - I know you said I’m not ready to carry weapons.”

“If you used them to eradicate a traitor, you can keep them. Come, we need to return to the command center.”

“Yes, master.”

“And you can leave the head.”

~*~

At least their stay on Hoth was short. Malavai sent his report in to Baras as soon as they returned to _Horizon_ and he’s been instructed to return to Dromund Kaas once again. Presumably Baras has some new assignment in mind, or there are other duties for Malavai to fulfill. Either way, it should hold more promise than just cleaning up a mess on Hoth.

He grabs the datapad he’s been working on and heads to the cargo bay.

Inside, Gimrizh is slowly going over the Makashi forms he’d instructed her to learn.

“Are you ready to begin training?” he asks, tossing his cold weather coat and the datapad onto a supply crate before picking up a practice sword of his own.

“Yes, master.” She raises her own blade, “I will do my best.”

With his free hand, he gestures for her to attack before sliding into a defensive stance, “Then begin with the preliminary set of moves.”

She attacks, slowly moving through the strikes with a frown of concentration on her face. It shouldn’t be this easy to block her, especially now that he knows she’s capable of murdering a trained Imperial soldier, armed with nothing more than two small knives.

Malavai eventually knocks her blade to the side, “You’re doing it wrong. Less power for now. Focus on refining your movement.”

“Yes, master,” she replies, but he can sense her own frustration building.

Although stronger emotions make channeling the dark side easier, he doesn't want her to lose control. Makashi is not a form that is forgiving when its practitioner abandons skill or control in favor of anger. It requires unleashing rage in precision bursts, when rage is needed at all. She’s slipping in the forms now.

Another few moves and he disarms her. The practice blade falls from her hand.

“You’re flickering about too much. Steady movement is key over speed. Pick up your sword.”

She quickly grabs it and returns to her stance. There’s a good deal of annoyance in her now. If he pushes her, he wonders what’ll happen.

“Again,” he commands.

They go through the forms. Gimrizh puts too much power behind moves when she doesn’t need to and then loses that power when it’s necessary. She’s constantly overextending her reach, leaning forward or leaning back far more than she needs to. Her stance is either too wide or not wide enough and she keeps messing up her footwork.

What part of it is she not getting? Makashi is hardly the most difficult of the forms to get the basics down, although Malavai knows it’s got a high skill ceiling.

She’s just off. Once again, he strikes her blade from her hand.

“Pick up your sword.”

Her next set is _far_ too angry. She’s thrown herself off balance and it’s clear she’s losing control of both her temper and her movements. There’s a refined elegance to Makashi that she’s missing entirely. In her hands, it looks a jarring, unsteady style.

It’s so easy this time to snap down on her practice blade and send it flying out of her hand.

“Pick up you-”

“NO!” She yells, “This isn’t working!”

_That’s_ how far he needed to push. Malavai stares at her and whatever she sees on his face must douse her anger because she immediately claps her hands over her mouth, looking horrified at what she’s just said.

“I am so sorry, master, I didn’t mean - ” she tries to explain, “It’s not that your teaching isn’t working, I didn’t mean that, it’s just. I don’t think this is for _me_ . The forms aren’t bad, they’re just not me. This just feels _wrong_.”

She’s right. Damn.

It’s clear, now that he looks for it, that her lack of skill in the form isn’t due to her lack of education. Even if he spent months or years teaching her every aspect of his prefered style, she’d never become anything more than passable in it. Makashi requires more restraint than she uses in a fight, more refinement. He remembers how she fought in the arena on Nar Shaddaa, her power, her speed, her flexibility and mobility. Makashi demands flexibility, but not to the level that she used. And it’s certainly not mobile like she was. It would only constrain her natural talents, dampen the wild ferocity that had appealed to him from the beginning.

No, Makashi is all wrong for her. As much as he hates to admit that he cannot teach her what he knows best, it won’t bring out the potential he’s seen in her.

These are new waters he’s treading.

“Gimrizh,” he says, cutting her off. “Stop.”

She bites her lip, beads of sweat rolling down her flushed cheeks. If she’s pushing herself this hard for a style that’s not the right fit for her, he can only imaging how fast she’ll progress when she’s working in the right direction.

“I’ve fucked it up, haven’t I?” There’s a dejected twist to her lips as she stares at the floor.

“No, you haven’t.” He clears his throat. “I believe the problem lies with me… and I apologize for that.”

She blinks at him, “Master, I didn’t mean…”

“You were right. I should not have tried to push you towards Makashi,” he admits. He’s a Sith Lord, for stars sake, he can swallow his pride on occasion. If he expects his subordinates to admit when they’ve made mistakes, then he must hold himself accountable to those same standards. “I wished to teach you my own style, so much so that I had little to no concern for how it would fit _you_.”

“I’m sorry, master.” She hesitates, “You did say that I might never be a true sith.”

“As today has proven, you aren’t a poor fighter. Stop thinking of yourself as such. You just aren’t a _duelist_ like I am. And Makashi is a duelist’s style. Pick whichever lightsaber form you wish. Given that there’s only so much I can teach you in regards to them, I expect you to study from the texts diligently.”

“Of course, master! I won’t let you down.”

“If this apprenticeship is to work, then I think I need to understand what you need better than I do now. I won’t push you into something if you are honest with me and tell me that it’s not working for you.”

“I.” She glances at the sword lying on the ground, “I want to use two swords. If that’s alright, master.”

“That’s… not a bad idea. You fought with two knives against the spy, and you did the same when I watched you fight the gundark. Are you certain you want to learn to dual wield lightsabers?”

“Yes, master. I’m sure. Having a second weapon always feels more balanced, more stable than just one.”

He’d noticed that when she practiced the Makashi forms. It was as though she didn’t know how to use her second hand. Malavai’s so accustomed to either keeping his hand in position behind his back, or as a counterweight on the handle of his lightsaber, he hadn’t understood what her problem was at first. But Gimrizh had seemed so tempted to keep it out at her side, as though she might need it to break a fall. It’d been a weakness in her forms. A second blade would suit her nicely.

“Then take one as you wish,” he tells her. “Show me what you can do.”

There’s a great deal of thoughtfulness in her as she picks up the practice blade and grabs a second one from the weapon’s rack.

It’s fascinating to watch her as she gets ready to spar. The way she twirls each blade in her hand first to get a balance on them, how she tests out different grips on the handles, her casual fluidity of movement. _This_ is what he’d seen in her, when he first watched her fight on Nar Shaddaa.

“Alright, master. I’m ready.”

He raises his practice weapon and settles into a slightly more advanced Makashi stance, his heart rate speeding up in anticipation. No longer does she appear to be a novice, and as such, he will not treat her as one. “Begin.”

For a minute they just evaluate one another, him waiting for her to strike first, and her gathering the nerve to do so. When she does move - it’s a shock. His eyes widen as he can sense her unconsciously draw on the force, letting it flow through her limbs like blood. How long has she been doing that without knowing what it is?

She dashes forward, all speed. Malavai parries her first strike and then side steps her second - she’s holding her right blade in a reverse grip.

For all she wasn’t able to perform the flexible wrist movements of Makashi, she’s more agile now than he ever is. When he lunges forward, plunging his blade towards her hearts, she bends backwards like an acrobat before snapping back up to attack again.

Their blades clash and Malavai shifts into a more advanced set of stances to counter her.

Makashi, in essence, is all about maintaining a perfect circle of awareness around the practitioner, making sure that anyone coming within range of his lightsaber can be either killed or blocked. It’s not about excessive movement, more about countering movement. Gimrizh, on the other hand, is nothing like that. She fights on every level that she can, utilizing her speed and flexibility in a way he’s never seen before.

One moment she’s almost parallel to the ground, trying to slice his legs off, the next she’s thrown herself off a supply crate to bring her blades down onto his head. She doesn’t block, she doesn’t even particularly dodge. Whatever she’s doing is all about not being where the enemy’s blade is, moving out of the way a second before he can strike.

Oh, she makes mistakes, of course. Stupid, beginner mistakes.

It’s to be expected, she’s not used to the range or weight of a practice sword. She pushes where she should retreat, she can’t tell when he’s feinting, and although she’s using the force to enhance her body, she clearly has no idea _how_ she’s doing it. She can’t anticipate his movements either, and that’s one of the first things an apprentice should learn. Her style, if she is to keep it, needs that bit of clairvoyance only the force can provide. It’s not refined either, her movements waste energy, and it’s pretty obvious that she’s never fought anyone as skilled as he is before.

But if _this_ \- her raw power - is what she has to start with, then there’s not a doubt in his mind that she could become someone very worthwhile.

He’s seen what he needs to.

In two fast blows, Malavai knocks her arms apart, hitting her wrists to make her drop her blades. He places his sword at her neck, “You’ve lost.”

“I yield,” she confirms, bowing her head.

He lowers his blade, surprised to find that his breathing is slightly labored. “That was very promising indeed. I don’t often find myself so impressed.”

“Thank you, master.”

Her eyes light up at his praise, a small but _thrilled_ grin hovering on her lips. There’s still that warm flush on her cheeks. The power slumbering in her - it’s enticing. Malavai wants so badly to draw it out of her, to see her come alive with that strength again. And she’s so _devoted_ as well, loyal and desperate to please. She must learn not to be, to stand on her own as a sith, but he’s delighted by the idea that she’s chosen to throw that loyalty at his feet.

The failing of all sith - he's attracted to power.

“Obviously,” he continues, “there's only so much instruction I can give you here. But now that I have a better sense of your skills I can come up with a more tailored training regimen. You have a lot to learn about Sith philosophy, utilization of the force, meditation, and so on.”

“I know. I have a long way to go.”

“You do, but make no mistake, you will improve. And you're starting from a much better place than I first thought.”

Her enthusiasm is infectious. “Master, if I may, I was wondering if I could assist you in building your speeders on Dromund Kaas. I - I can be of assistance in more than just force matters.”

Is it an effort to ingratiate herself to him? Although her interest before seemed genuine enough. “Alright. They are quite important to me, however, so I will not allow you to work on them without my supervision.”

“Of course. And master? Thank you for listening to me.”

“I will endeavor to do so more often in the future. I have never had an apprentice before, so my teaching methods will undoubtedly have room for improvement.” He beckons her to follow as he leaves the cargo bay. “I want to show you how to fly _Horizon_. After all, this ship was designed to have a copilot.”

The effort that he's making to include her in his life surprises him. She's just supposed to be a project, nothing more. Certainly not someone that he lets fly his ship, or someone he'd allow to work on the speeders he and his brother have spent years laboring over. It's her power again - as much as he tries to draw her in, she does the same to him.

On the bridge, he directs her to take the copilot’s seat.

“Have you ever used a nav computer?”

After a moment of observing the console, she powers up the program, “No. But I think I can figure it out.”

She’s a fast learner, and it’s easy to show her how _Horizon_ runs.


End file.
